Carey quelled the sick feeling in her stomach. Move forward. Get it over with.
“I’ve read your briefs, gentlemen,” she said. “And I’m well aware of the impact my decision will have on this case. I can guarantee neither of you would want to be sitting in this chair right now.”
Logan would have argued that, she knew. Bias was a way of life for him. “Right with might” was his motto. If he believed something, then it was so-no arguments. But he held his tongue, held his breath, poised to leap out of his chair. Carey met his gaze full-on.
“I don’t see an exception here,” she said.
Logan opened his mouth, ready to rebut.
“You’ll allow me to finish, Mr. Logan.”
His face was flushed red with anger. He looked at the wall.
“Mr. Dahl’s prior acts may point in a particular direction, suggesting a possible path of future criminal behavior,” she said. “However, he has no history of violent crimes, and this court can’t foresee what Mr. Dahl might do in months or years to come. At any rate, we aren’t allowed to try people for crimes they have yet to commit.”
“Your Honor,” Logan said, his voice tight from holding back the need to shout. “Violent criminals are made over time. Mr. Dahl’s record-”
“Is inadmissible,” Carey said.
If people could have been put away for crimes they had yet to commit, Chris Logan would have been led away in handcuffs. The fury in his eyes was murderous.
Kenny Scott barely contained himself from leaping out of his chair and doing a victory dance. Carey stared at him, and he slouched back down and swallowed the joy of his victory. He wouldn’t think it was such a good thing after the news hit the press, Carey thought.
People generally demonstrated less loathing for public defenders than headline defense attorneys. They were, after all, civil servants toiling away for low wages, devoting their lives to helping the unfortunate. But as soon as her ruling was made public, Kenny Scott would suddenly become an enemy of the state. Defending the indigent was one thing. Getting an accused murderer off was quite another.
“Your Honor,” Scott said, ready to strike while the iron was hot. “In view of your ruling, I don’t see that the prosecution has enough evidence to support the indictment-”
Logan came out of his chair.
Eyes popping, Scott looked at the man looming over him. “I move that the charges be dismissed,” he said, talking as fast as he could, trying to get all the words out of his mouth before Logan could grab him by the throat and crush his larynx.
“Motion denied,” Carey said with a calm that belied her inner tension. “Sit down, Mr. Logan, or I’ll have you removed.”
Logan glared at her, defiant. He didn’t sit, but he moved away from Kenny Scott and went over by the wall, his hands jammed at his waist, nostrils flaring as he tried to gather himself.
“But Your Honor,” Scott argued, “the state has no direct evidence linking my client to the crimes. No fingerprints on the murder weapons-”
“He wiped them clean,” Logan growled.
“No blood evidence on his clothes-”
“So he ditched the clothes.”
“No DNA evidence-”
“He used a condom-”
“Not so much as a hair-”
“The guy doesn’t have any,” Logan snapped. “He shaves his body clean so he won’t leave any hairs behind. What does that tell you?”
“He does it for hygiene reasons,” Scott said. “The guy’s a transient. He doesn’t want to pick up lice.”
Logan made a rude sound and rolled his eyes dramatically.
Carey turned to him. “Well, Mr. Logan? What do you have on Mr. Dahl?”
“I’m supposed to lay out my entire case in front of him?” Logan said, incredulous.
“Do you have a case to lay out?”
“He’s got conjecture, supposition, and coincidence,” Scott said.
“I’ve got a grand jury indictment,” Logan said.
“And the Cracker Jack box it came in?”
“It’s good to know you have so much respect for our criminal justice system, Mr. Scott,” Carey said without humor.
Scott stammered, tripping backward, trying to cover his mistake. Carey held up a hand to forestall the attempt. She wished the earth would open and swallow Kenny Scott and Chris Logan and this entire nightmare case.
“The indictment stands,” she said. “A jury can decide if the state has a case strong enough to convict your client, Mr. Scott.”
She gave Logan a look she knew he recognized from their years together on the same side of the bar. “And if you don’t, Mr. Logan… God help you.”
She rose behind her desk and nodded toward the door. “Gentlemen…”
Kenny Scott bounced up from his seat. “But Your Honor, shouldn’t we revisit the idea of bail?”
“No.”
“But my client-”
“Should consider himself damned lucky to have a guarded building between himself and the public,” she said. “Considering the climate of the community, bail would not be in your client’s best interest. Quit while you’re ahead, Mr. Scott.”
Scott bobbed and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“No. I’m sorry, Your Honor. I meant no disrespect.”
“Please leave.”
“Yes, ma- Of course.”
He held up his hands as if to concede his stupidity, then fumbled to grab his briefcase and nearly tripped himself on his way out the door.
Logan remained for a moment but didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. Carey knew exactly what was going through his mind. Then he huffed a sigh and walked out like a man with a purpose.
The bottle of scotch in his bottom right-hand desk drawer.
“Have one for me,” she muttered.
2
THE BEST TIME for a controlled release of bad news to the public is Friday afternoon. Taxes are going up, the economy is going down, more troops are being deployed to some third world hot spot-the announcements are made on Friday afternoon. People are busy ending their workweek, getting ready for a few days of freedom, getting out of wherever early for a weekend at a lake. There’s a good chance a lot of attention will be anywhere but on the news.
Detective Stan Dempsey knew how the world of politics worked. He’d been on the shit end of it much of his life, in the army, on the police force. He had a great loathing for the people who held those positions of power. People who were able to wave a hand, shrug a shoulder, raise an eyebrow, and alter the lives of those beneath them without a care or afterthought. People like Judge Carey Moore.
It was difficult for him to think of her as being in a position of authority, holding sway over cases he had built. She seemed too young, looked too pretty. His soul was as old as dirt. He had been wearing a police uniform when she was a child.
He had dealt with Carey Moore when she had been working her way up through the county attorney’s office. A good prosecutor. Tough. Demanding. Despite the big blue eyes and turned-up nose, she had never been anyone’s patsy or pawn.
Dempsey didn’t know what had happened to her since she’d become a judge. Cops had believed they would have someone on the bench who wouldn’t take any crap from defense attorneys, wouldn’t have any time for the dirtbags on trial before her. They had practically expected automatic convictions-Do not pass Go, Go directly to jail.
That wasn’t what had happened at all. She had become a different person on the bench, entertaining ridiculous defense motions, allowing the work of the police force she had once relied on to be questioned and ridiculed. As far as sentences went, if she had a book, she sure as hell wasn’t throwing it at anybody.
And so Stan Dempsey shouldn’t have been surprised that Friday afternoon when the news broke. Court wasn’t even in session. The meeting had gone down in Judge Moore’s chambers.